


Hearth

by Louffox



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, it's just meaningless CUTENESS, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-04-22 18:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22199824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louffox/pseuds/Louffox
Summary: Hell or high water, he would always return to his hearth.And the fire was always lit for him.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 4
Kudos: 70





	Hearth

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Wilde coming in from the cold to Zolf having started a fire. Thanks OT9 for prompt blessings

Wilde’s hair was absolutely  _ ruined _ .

Well. He wasn’t actually that frivolous and foolish. He knew that his hair was really the least of his worries. He had a book tucked under his arm, wrapped in his scarf, hopefully not ruined in the rain. He was fairly certain he’d pushed his reading glasses up on top of his head before he’d left, and those were just  _ gone _ now. He’d buttoned his coat up to the top, but he still had inches of neck and his whole chin and face exposed to the driving rain. Hands that should’ve been white knuckled from gripping his jacket closed and keeping the book safe, but were actually bright red from cold. He was sniffing every three seconds, and he couldn’t tell what was rain and what was tears from the wind. His trousers were soaked and his feet felt like ice, despite his boots being waterproof, at the very least.

This was crossing from discomfort to danger.

So yes, he would focus on his hair. Because the alternative was to acknowledge how bad the situation really was. Sometimes it felt nice to play stupid, even to himself. Because sometimes the alternative was reality, and it was all fighting and exhaustion. Usually the stupid pretty boy act was just that, an act, to be used as a tool and to gain an upper hand, to manipulate and trick and con, but sometimes it became almost self-soothing to just pretend that he really was frivolous enough to fret about his hair.

The concealer under his eyes was surely gone as well. Dammit.

_ Tuck your chin and march, honey. You’ve got miles yet _ , the voice he carried inside spoke, the one that was steel and stone, sturdy and blunt and unrelenting, the one that had pushed him to magic school and the top of his class and the mastery of the arcane bard arts, that had told him to do whatever it took to climb, to keep climbing, until he was damn near level with dragons, and still it urged him to climb. The voice that told him he must fight, he would always fight, he was better, he could be stronger, he could keep going-

-it sounded a bit west country, lately.

_ No one is coming to get you out here. Keep going. _

He tucked his chin. He marched. He kept going.

It took so long. The path was full of water. Every step a splash, every motion a battle against the wind and weight of the water. It was in his eyes, his mouth, his ears, and it was freezing. He tried to think of something else, anything else, but the cold was a scream in his mind, a long unending wail of  _ cold cold cold brr freezing pain cold pain pain cold _

His chattering teeth had slowed to a few juddering chatters in odd bursts. He felt like his very organs were shivering in his gut and chest. Each exhale, he curled and hunched. Walking was a numb pattern he repeated without sensation, stomping gracelessly along on frozen brick feet.

Blinking rainwater out of his eyes to see a few lights of the town, he could’ve cried with relief. He didn’t. He lurched forward, that last stretch to town a yawning eternity of a distance. Then from the outermost house to the next. Then the next. He could see the hotel they inhabited- it was so  _ far _ .

_ Get there. Finish. _

He drew a shivering, shuddering breath, and got there.

A slightly hysterical bark of a laugh stammered out of him as he struggled to bend his elbows, turn his wrist, use his white lifeless fingers to open the door. The laughter flipped to fury.  _ Come ON _ .  _ I made it I’m here now just open- cmon, please- _

He got the door open and nearly fell in, staggering straight over to a side table so he could unbend his elbow and let the book tucked under his arm fall out of his jacket. There was the soft dark of moisture on it, but it wasn’t severe.

He couldn’t find it to care. He was cold.

He was  _ cold  _ cold cold  ** _cold_ ** ** cold ** _ cold cold  _ cold COLD  ** _cold_ **

The jacket was soaked and would have to come off. He knew it was just trapping cold in. Take the jacket off. Jacket off. Jacket. Off.

He just stood there, unable to find it within himself to move.

Hands on his shoulders. A voice in his ear. Pushing him forward. He staggered, moved. Was turned, a door opened, gently pushed further.

Warmth.

“-got you, c’mon, let’s get you out of that. Yer gonna catch yer death, you great fool.”

“Are-re-re-re you ber-r-r-rating m-m-me?” Oscar asked incredulously. “I’m- I’m- I-”  _ I’m freezing to death, yes, and you’re berating me for it?! _

“You should’ve stayed put for the night. Going out in this, I swear. Stubborn as steel, you proud of yourself?” The jacket was peeled off, the shirt, and even the shirt beneath that. He curled his spine again, drawing his shoulders in, trying to protect the heart of him from the air. A towel was placed over his shoulders and wrapped firmly over his arms, still curled up over his stomach, and another heavy thing over that- a thick quilt.

“I gotta get you sat down to take your boots off, can you do that? Just here.” He obeyed the gentle pressure and sat in the chair he was directed toward.

His boots were unlaced quickly, loosened and slipped from his feet. His socks were tugged at, but left on.

“Feet feel dry. Cold, though?”

“ _ Very _ . Glad they’re dry, at least.”

“Mmm. Told ya that wax was the good stuff. Trousers are soaked though. You okay with me helping you out of those? I don’t like the looks of those fingers, and we’re not gonna wait for them to get functional again.”

“Yes, fine.”

“Can you stand back up? You can hold this.”

Something long and wooden was put in his hands and he took it obediently, relying mostly on the memory of how fingers worked rather than actually being able to operate them.

It was warm. He gripped it and stood slowly, feeling like he was made of wood himself. But not hot and supple- he was frozen and brittle. There should’ve been an audible creak as he stood.

His lower layers were removed and he stepped, wobbling and ungainly and using the staff of the glaive for balance, into some new, soft, thick trousers.

The air felt warmer on his cheeks. Dry and hot. Good.

“Fire’s finally picking up. Thank heavens. Let’s go a bit closer, sit somewhere comfortable, yeah?”

“Mmmm.”

He walked up toward the heat until the skin of his face felt tight and dry with it, and sat on a soft couch.

The air was dry. Trousers dry, warm, soft. Towel dry. Blanket heavy and warm.

Another towel dropped gently on him and began to rub at his hair and scalp, pressing and kneading out the water that made him flinch as it dripped.

“My hair is absolutely  _ ruined _ ,” he said, finally out loud, to the one he knew understood that he wasn’t actually that frivolous and foolish, who understood that sometimes it felt nice to play stupid, even to himself, because sometimes the alternative was reality, and sometimes he just didn’t want that.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Zolf murmured, giving his hair one last squeeze before dropping the towel aside, taking the glaive, and instead wrapping his hands around his own. They were warm too. They felt like home.

“It’s really cold out,” he muttered sleepily, the shivering tension slowly coming out of his spine. He slouched sideways into Zolf, his heat and hearth, fight and fire, comfort and care. His shoulder shook with a small laugh.

“You’re cold too. Hands like ice. It’s a good thing I love you,” he said, flinching slightly but pressing closer as Wilde leaned further against him, chasing the ice from his skin with the touch of his Zolf.

“Good thing,” Oscar sighed.

**Author's Note:**

> Send! Me! More! Prompts! I love these two. I've got lots of Ed/Tjelvar stuff half written too.


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